


Holding Patterns

by daasgrrl



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complete, Crossover, Incest, M/M, Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:03:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin receives an unusual request from an MJN client, which he handles with his usual... dignity and aplomb. Notionally takes place after <em>The Reichenbach Fall</em>, although the references are minimal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to the steadfast [](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/profile)[**evila_elf**](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/) for beta and a special thank you to [](http://xanthe.livejournal.com/profile)[**xanthe**](http://xanthe.livejournal.com/) for coming to the rescue with britpick and general encouragement. Anything you continue to disapprove of is mine.  
>  I have no idea where this fic came from. One day it just walked in, loudly announced itself, put its feet up on the coffee table and demanded I write it. So I did.

**Holding Patterns**

Martin shivered as he stepped out from the depths of the overheated Foyles into the chill of an early London evening. Somehow he had managed to while away an entire afternoon within its walls; in fact without even having left the confines of the section helpfully marked _Aviation – Civil and Military_. The store had been massive, spanning several floors; he thought the entire contents of Fitton library could conceivably have been tucked quite nicely into the café area. If Martin couldn’t actually be _in_ a plane, or at least somewhere in one’s immediate vicinity, it was the next closest thing to heaven.

He set off at a brisk pace down the street, trying to ward off the cold that was already working its way through the thick wool of his pilot’s uniform. Nevertheless, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Normally he’d never get the chance to explore London during a charter; their schedule usually only allowed them just enough time to pick up passengers and do a turnaround. Even in the event of a few hours’ unscheduled delay, London proper was a good hour on the bus from the Biggin Hill airfield – too far for a crew supposed to be on standby.

But this had been an odd trip all around. The client had not only paid for the plane to arrive the evening before pickup, citing the need for absolute punctuality on the morrow, but had actually paid for crew accommodation in central London as well. Shared twins, of course – such extravagance clearly only went so far – but nevertheless it was a generous and unheard-of luxury, and one that did not pass unremarked by any of them. Carolyn had been so pleased she’d taken them all out for lunch at the pub round the corner from the four-star hotel – the Stag and Squirrel, or was it the Fox and Ferret? Some unnatural conjunction of animals, anyway. When Martin had set off on his expedition, they had looked to be settling in for what looked like a suitably boozy afternoon – or at least Carolyn was, and Douglas and Arthur seemed happy enough keeping her entertained.

He’d walked about a hundred metres down the street when it occurred to him that perhaps he should have taken better note of where their hotel was located. Had he passed that kebab shop on his way here, or had it been selling fish and chips then? Pity he’d been too well fed at the time to notice. Upon reflection it further occurred to him that perhaps it would have been a _really_ good idea to have had the hotel’s address and telephone number written down and carried somewhere about his person. Or at the very _very_ least… to actually recall the _name_ of the hotel. These things usually didn’t happen to him on layover, because Douglas always knew exactly where they were staying in any given city. This is what Martin got for striking out on his own.

Still, he was in too good a mood to panic; he had his mobile, and if the situation deteriorated he’d just have to make the call and take Douglas’ derision on the chin. He’d definitely turned right into the bookshop and turned left on the way out, so he was almost certainly on the correct course heading. There was a low rumble overhead, audible even through the urban hum, and he looked up to see a 747 with Cathay Pacific markings, landing lights bright against the evening sky, heading west into Heathrow. He sighed. Maybe if he tried hard enough, one day that would be him.

Somewhere deep inside he knew that it was probably a lost cause, but he wasn’t willing to let the dream go just yet. Still tracking the plane out of sight, he barely noticed the sleek black car that had pulled up to the kerb alongside him.

“Captain? Captain Crieff?”

“Er… what?” Martin turned, startled.

A man had emerged from the driver’s side of the car, impeccably dressed in suit and tie, and was addressing him with the kind of deferential expression usually reserved for… well, for airline captains. Instinctively, Martin glanced to his right for Douglas before pulling himself together.

“That is to say… yes. Yes. That’s me.” At least the hat had worked, for a change.

“If you wouldn’t mind, sir,” the man was saying. “Mr. Buckingham would like a quiet word with you. Before the flight tomorrow.”

He gestured towards the car. Martin had no idea what make or model of car it was, his expertise stopping dead at the point where a given form of transport failed to achieve lift, but it was clearly expensive and shiny. And reassuringly non-yellow.

“Why… er, of course,” Martin said, astonishment warring with delight. It was really the perfect solution to his current problem. A man who’d _paid_ for his accommodation would surely have someone on hand who actually knew where it was. Even better if his driver would take him back there afterwards. At the time it didn’t even occur to him to wonder how on earth Mr. Buckingham knew where to find him or even who he was. Even _with_ the helpful visual aid of the pilot’s uniform.

His response earned him a solemn nod, and the man moved to open the back door of the car with a small flourish. “If you would, sir.”

The interior of the car was as luxurious as its outward promise. It was all dark leather upholstery and wood trim, with a welcoming glass bottle of still water tucked into the curved alcove in front of him. Martin reached for it and sipped from it in silence, watching the evening lights of London slowly coming to life outside the windows, the driver’s dashboard glowing green in the darkness of the car. He lost track of time as the streets flashed by, but it was probably no more than an hour before the car drew up before an imposing iron-gated property. If there was in fact a house within, it was too far back to be visible from outside. The driver pressed a button on the dash, and the gate opened inwards to allow the car passage. Martin swallowed, hard. Up until this point he had been enjoying himself far too much to be intimidated. The bottle of water was now empty, and he hastily shoved it back into the alcove with an inelegant _thunk_.

“So, er, Mr. Buckingham, isn’t it? What’s he like, then?”

Martin tried his best to keep his voice steady, but it was as though his anxiety had suddenly woken up and remembered who was boss around here. It wasn’t totally unfounded, after all. In his humble experience dealing with those individuals wealthy enough to charter a private jet for purely personal use, the very, very rich tended also to be very, very nasty. Perhaps this one wanted a little pre-flight toadying, just to make sure he got full value for money.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir,” the driver replied smoothly, which was in a way even more worrying, because the man was clearly rich enough to hire staff trained to talk without actually saying anything.

“Is there… anything I should know? I mean, did he tell you why he… um, is it about the landing fees? Because they really did go up, just this month actually, it’s just not on the website yet…” At that point Martin realised he was unequivocally babbling and shut his mouth firmly.

“I’m sure it’s nothing like that, sir.”

His answer left Martin less than completely reassured.

 

 

***

 

 

One butler later, Martin had been left standing in a room that made him feel unaccountably small and shabby, even though every crease in his uniform had been properly starched when he’d left home that morning. The owner probably called it a drawing room, but to him it more closely resembled the foyer of a private museum. Flanking a long table behind Martin stood two massive stone statues of horses, complete with riders, defending the darkened window to the invisible gardens beyond. The lights were dimmed to an approximation of candlelight, but the elegance of the room was still breathtaking. There was wood panelling covering the walls, an actual chandelier, and on every shelf and table there were objets d’art of metal and pottery and glass that each likely cost more than the entire house Martin currently resided in the attic of.

About three feet in front of him were two armchairs, angled towards each other, and worn with age in a way that suggested ‘antique’ rather than ‘council tip’. Martin had not been invited to sit, and so he didn’t, instead shifting slightly from foot to foot as he waited. A fire was burning defiantly in the fireplace, but its semi-circle of warmth didn’t seem to extend very far into the room.

After an interval not quite long enough to be judged rude, but not quite short enough to be polite, the far door opened and Mr.-Buckingham-he-presumed finally made his appearance. He was much younger than the elderly gent Martin instinctively expected, looking not far into middle age. Tailored suits apparently ran in the household, although his was clearly from a more expensive tailor than the rest. He was tall – of _course_ he was, Martin thought resentfully – and thin, and he immediately walked over to greet Martin with what he apparently believed was a charming smile, his hand outstretched. Martin may have been naïve in some ways, but he’d been pushed around enough in his life to recognise the steel behind the smile.

“Thank you for coming, Captain Crieff,” Buckingham said warmly, although in a manner that indicated that there had been no doubt whatsoever over the eventual outcome of his request. His eyes scanned Martin from top to bottom, left to right, then returned to fix him in their gaze.

“Oh, it was my pleasure, of course, Mr. …Buckingham. Yes,” Martin managed. For a moment he wished fervently that Douglas were there beside him. It would be… fairer, somehow. If there were a situation that could intimidate Douglas, he’d never seen it. Embarrass, yes. Intimidate, no. Douglas could even toady magnificently without completely losing his dignity. It was one of the many skills Martin had never quite mastered.

“Yes,” Buckingham echoed vaguely, as though it hardly mattered what Martin were saying. “It really is uncanny. You are of course a little bit shorter, but that could be got around easily enough. And it is rather appealing, I have to admit.”

“Excuse me?” A feeling of disorientation was stealing slowly over Martin, much like the sensation of flying through a fogbank. “I mean, I know I’m… but you really don’t have to be six foot to fly a plane. That’s just in the advertising brochures.”

Buckingham held up a restraining hand. The smile was back. “Not at all, Captain. I’m sure you are utterly competent in your professional duties. I wanted to speak to you about something altogether …different.”

At last he moved to take a seat in front of the fireplace, and gestured Martin to do likewise. Martin couldn’t help but notice that Buckingham automatically took the left-hand “seat of God” as his own. Although done most likely purely out of habit it did, however, reinforce to Martin that he was clearly not the one in authority here.

“I have been rather naughty, I’m afraid,” Buckingham began, once they were seated. “Would you care for a drink?” he added, apropos of nothing.

Martin shook his head automatically. 

“You see,” Buckingham continued, with barely a pause. “I may have chartered that flight simply so I could meet _you_.”

Utterly lost now, Martin reached for the first thing he could comprehend. “You couldn’t just have come up to Fitton? It would have been a lot cheaper.”

Buckingham sighed. “I could have done, I suppose. But I am so very busy nowadays. And the North is rather a bore, I find. Are you quite certain you wouldn’t like a drink? I would.”

This time he paid no attention to Martin, but reached for the cut crystal decanter already in place on the low table set between them. It was half-filled with a dark liquid that in the firelight’s glow reminded Martin alarmingly of blood.

“Courvoiser,” Buckingham said, pouring a measure into each of two matching crystal glasses. It meant very little to Martin, whose world of alcoholic beverages roughly divided into ‘beer’ and ‘someone else is paying for this, drink up’.

“I can’t,” Martin said hastily. “I have to fly. Twenty-four hours, you see.”

“It’s eight hours,” Buckingham said pleasantly, picking up his own glass. “Do have a drink, Captain Crieff.”

Martin obediently raised the glass to his lips, his hand shaking slightly, then hesitated. The interruption had finally given him enough time to really assess the situation. As usual, what had initially seemed like the answer to his problems had turned out to be only the precursor to a whole host of new and even bigger ones. Here he was, somewhere outside of London, in the house of a man he’d never met before, who was clearly rich and powerful enough to make him disappear without a trace, if need be. Although why anyone would _want_ him gone was in fact genuinely bewildering. Martin had never thought he’d taken up that much space on the earth to begin with.

“Oh come now, it’s not poisoned,” Buckingham said, although Martin would have sworn that he hadn’t been paying the slightest attention. “I just thought it might make this easier.” He glanced briefly at Martin, and then turned his gaze back to the fire. “For both of us,” he added softly.

It was the first time during their conversation that Buckingham had sounded less like a very wealthy man, and more like, well, a _person_. Martin considered a moment longer, and then finally drank, not with the kind of dramatic swallow that he knew would only lead to humiliating coughing and spluttering, but in slow, careful sips. It had been a long time since lunch, and so even at that measured rate the buzz was almost instant. He could feel his cheeks burning.

Then Buckingham put down his own glass and smiled at him, softer this time, more satin than steel. “Martin... May I call you Martin?”

Martin felt better now, bolder. “But what shall I call you, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Buckingham tilted his head reflectively, and it was only then that Martin realised that he really, truly had no idea who he was dealing with. “Michael, I think. Do you think it suits me?”

Despite the alcohol, the in-flight alarms were all going off in Martin’s head now, quite insistently. It really had been silly to think that any of this was ever going to turn out well for him. He put down his glass sharply and began to reach for his mobile. Douglas. There were times when a diversion was absolutely necessary, and he had little doubt that this was one of those times. His plan of action was very simple, really. He would call Douglas, and Douglas would work out where he was and come find him. He mentally blotted out the word _rescue_. It was nothing like that. He just… didn’t know where he was, that was all.

“Please don’t,” the-man-who-almost-certainly-wasn’t-Michael said, and he had emerged from the depths of his chair and plucked the phone from Martin’s hand almost faster than Martin could register it. For all his languid manner, he had reflexes like a cat. “I did go to a lot of trouble to get you here.”

“W-what do you want?” Martin said, the panic building now. “With… me?”

Michael – Martin supposed he would just have to take him at his word for now – sighed again, as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He looked steadily at Martin again, which was strangely calming.

“You know that this is _exactly_ the kind of thing I’d hoped to avoid, but I can see I’m handling it very badly indeed. I thought I was prepared from the photos, but you’re really not at all what I expected. Please. Just listen, and then you may have your phone back, and Carl will drop you back at the hotel.”

His words were reassuring, but the way he turned off Martin’s phone, and put it into his jacket pocket, was not.

“I know a lot about you, Martin Crieff,” he began. ”Your mother; your late father; one brother and one sister. The years it took you to get your pilot’s licence; your moving business. Your birth date; your NHS number; your flatmates; your friends; your hobbies.”

“That last one couldn’t have taken long,” Martin snapped, unable to help himself. “You’ve been - ” Martin couldn’t bring himself to say the word _spying_. It sounded impossibly dramatic, like something out of the Cold War, all ridiculous code names and hidden messages. “ - researching. Me. For some inexplicable reason.”

Michael smiled. “I could explain,” he said. “I just don’t _want_ to. Let’s just say I wanted to meet you and see if you were… fit for purpose.”

“What _purpose_? I can fly a plane. That’s all I do. That’s all I want to do. And if you’d just let me get back to that, I’d be ever so grateful. Even more so if you weren’t actually on it.”

“And now you’re angry with me,” Michael said, as if he actually found it pleasing. “How very familiar. And now we come to the point. There were initially other reasons I wanted to make your acquaintance, to be sure. In future your unique – _qualities_ – could make you extremely helpful to me and my… colleagues. But now that I have you here in the flesh, as it were, I think it might be best to set that aside and talk about something completely different. In other words, I have, quite literally, a proposition to make you.”

Martin stole a look at his glass, which was still more than half full. He was fairly certain he wasn’t drunk, and Michael was doing an excellent job of looking and sounding like a perfectly reasonable man. Therefore, one of them was clearly missing something in a truly spectacular fashion, and he had to admit the odds were firmly in favour of the probability that it was him. 

“Yes, you… wanted me to fly you to Milan?” he offered hopefully. “Because that is, in fact, my main quality. That of… being a pilot.”

His confusion became complete when Michael gave him one more searching look, and then threw back his head and laughed delightedly, exposing the long column of his throat, and making him seem for a moment rather more like a naughty schoolboy than some kind of crazed eccentric. It was a laugh completely without malice, and Martin, who was far more used to hearing the other sort, could not help but chuckle tentatively in response.

“I’m so sorry,” Michael said. “But you really are the most delightful creature. So passionate. So very _single-minded_. And of course, exactly to my particular… tastes.”

Understanding was beginning to catch up very, very slowly to Martin, having had to hurdle astonishment, suspicion and outright incredulity on its difficult journey.

“What… exactly do you mean?” he said intelligently, when it finally began waving its arms at him from a distance. For some reason all he could think of was Carolyn’s offhand _You're not going to strike terror into_ _anyone's_ _heart u_ _n_ _less_ _you chat them up in a bar._ Martin was under no illusions as to his attractiveness to those of the opposite – or even the same – sex. He had a poorer track record with relationships than _Arthur_ , something which embarrassed him no end if he chanced to think about it. But if the trials of gaining his pilot’s licence had taught him anything, it was the power of persistence.

If he just asked enough women for a date, sooner or later one of them would have to say yes. It was simple mathematics. And if he asked enough of _them_ to, well, and so on up until an actual binding commitment, then eventually he would find someone. He was almost sure of it. Although he was mostly too busy to have put very much of his plan into actual effect, admittedly. But he _had_ one. And so it did rather defy belief that this arguably attractive and unquestionably wealthy man was suggesting… whatever it was he was suggesting.

“This isn’t exactly an ordinary occasion for me, either,” Michael said, judging Martin’s expression correctly. He reached into his suit jacket and extracted what appeared to be a solid stack of fifty-pound notes in their bi-coloured red and grey glory. They were held together by a thin silver money clip across the centre. He leaned over the table and deposited the bundle next to Martin’s glass.

“Two thousand pounds,” he said, watching Martin carefully. “One night.”

If he had been hoping for a reaction he certainly got it. Martin instantly sprang out of the chair and backed away. He’d finally arrived at the basic conclusion, but now all kinds of ugly possibilities were further suggesting themselves. It had suddenly occurred to him that this man’s ‘particular’ tastes could amount to anything. Martin was fairly innocent in many ways, but he wasn’t a complete idiot, regardless of what anyone might think. Horrible things could happen to… people. He wasn’t sure exactly what, but he was quite sure some of them were extremely painful.

“I don’t think so,” Martin said. “Could I have my phone back, please?”

“No. Nothing like that.” Michael was now also on his feet, one hand outstretched in protest. He seemed to have lost a little of his unshakeable confidence, for which Martin was spitefully grateful. “I… oh, this really _is_ embarrassing, I remember now why I promised myself I wasn’t going to do this. Martin. Listen. It’s very simple. There used to be… someone. Who you remind me of. Very much so, even though your personalities are almost entirely unalike. Due to … circumstances he has been forced to travel abroad for some months for his own safety. And, well… I rather miss him. That’s all. I did originally ask you here because I thought you could be useful to me in some other small ways as well. But that’s nothing to do with… the other subject.“

Martin shook his head, but the man’s obvious sincerity impressed him, despite himself. Loneliness was, after all, something he could understand perfectly. But there were still too many unanswered questions before he could even get to the point of thinking rationally. He felt that Michael, or whoever he was, occupied a mental space consistently about ten steps ahead of Martin’s own. And if that were the case, in this instance he was just going to have to wait for Martin to get there. In his own time.

“So you’re claiming you set all… _this_ … up, just so you could meet me. For whatever reason. But how could you possibly know that I existed? Was someone on your staff looking to charter an airplane out of Fitton?”

“No, of course not. There are pictures on your… website.” Michael grimaced slightly, for which Martin, having visited said website exactly once after Arthur’s latest makeover, had only sympathy. “And I have, shall we say, excellent access to cutting-edge facial recognition software.”

It was all starting to make sense now, in a completely nonsensical kind of way. “So what you’re saying is that I _look_ like him. Your friend. Someone.”

“Yes. Apart from…”

Martin sighed. “Yes, the height. I know. Right. _Fine_.”

”So you’ll consider…”

“Don’t you think it’s just a little insulting offering someone money to, well, sleep with you?” Martin said, trying not to blush further, and failing.

Michael shrugged, but he did look slightly embarrassed. “I’m a practical man. I know your history. I know your circumstances. I thought it might be a suitable inducement.”

“You could have just asked.”

“You wouldn’t have believed me.”

Which was, Martin had to admit, entirely true. In fact, he _still_ wasn’t sure if he believed him.

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask… Douglas didn’t put you up to this, did he?” Because even though he had no idea how Douglas could possibly manage a set-up this elaborate, Martin still wouldn’t put it past him.

At least the question seemed to amuse Michael more than anything else. “Really. No. I have no connections whatsoever with your First Officer. But how highly you must think of him.”

Martin couldn’t quite tell if the last bit were sarcastic or not, but decided it wasn’t important. Michael was just waiting now, watching and waiting as though he had all the time in the world. His amusement had faded, and now he just looked a little tired. Sad. He actually _was_ lonely, Martin realised with some surprise. But it didn’t really change things.

“No,” Martin said.

Michael looked at him quizzically, as if the word might have other secondary meanings, if he could but decipher them. “You mean…”

“I’m sure you’re a very nice man,” Martin said slowly. “But this just….isn’t…it shouldn’t be _like_ this. Of course I couldn’t say exactly what it _should_ be like, but not… this. You can’t just… look, I’m sorry about your _someone else_ , but I’m _not_ him, am I?”

“It’s true,” Michael said dryly. “He wouldn’t be nearly as difficult about this.”

“So. I’m sorry I couldn’t… help you.”

“But maybe I could help you, Martin.”

Again, Martin had the distinct feeling he was being outmanoeuvred without being able to identify exactly how.

“You could still use the money, I imagine?”

The question had the effect of pulling Martin up abruptly. Preoccupied with getting a basic grasp on the situation, it was the first time he’d actually contemplated the amount of Michael’s offer in actual cash terms. While he had no idea what the going rate was for that kind of thing, two thousand pounds could not be described as anything other than incredibly flattering. And although Carolyn was in fact now paying him a per-diem allowance, it was an amount that would make a pittance look generous in comparison. There was no question that in his situation the amount lying on the table still constituted an enormous sum, and he really _could_ use it. However, there was such a thing as principle. Of course, there were times, such as with Mr. Birling, when one simply couldn’t afford to be _too_ principled. Again he wished Douglas were here, because he could really use the advice. Except that this particular dilemma was something Martin would never, ever tell him about.

“I…suppose?”

“How about this. I would very much like to kiss you, Martin. Preferably without the hat. And I think it would be worth, oh, let’s say two hundred pounds. What do you think? Would that be… mutually agreeable?”

It had also apparently never occurred to Martin up until this point to ask himself what _he_ actually wanted. His instinctive rejection of the initial overture had been so strong that he hadn’t bothered to assess how he felt towards Michael, if anything. The way Michael had originally put it, it hadn’t seemed as though Martin’s own desires were something at all relevant to the situation. But now that Martin was contemplating the reality of his latest proposal, it didn’t seem too bad a deal at all. Michael was attractive enough in a lean, hawk-like way, and Martin really wasn’t too averse to being kissed by him. And two hundred pounds was… two hundred pounds.

He looked up at Michael, who seemed to be following his train of thought effortlessly, and not without some amusement. Martin felt a flare of annoyance, suddenly fed up with the entire situation. He just wasn’t designed for all this complicated game playing. He left that kind of thing to Douglas. Yes, he would kiss Michael for two hundred pounds, but he didn’t have to be gracious about it. He did, however, take off his hat, putting it carefully on the edge of the table.

“I take it that’s a yes?”

Without waiting for a response, Michael plucked four notes from the money clip and came over to tuck them neatly into Martin’s jacket pocket. Then he leaned over to press his lips firmly, possessively against Martin’s. Martin’s small gasp of surprise was lost somewhere in the middle as Michael’s hands rose to cup his face between them. As far as kisses went it was really rather good, and decidedly less awkward than most of his previous experiences. At least one of them knew what he was doing.

After an indeterminate length of time it had further become clear to Martin that the low moaning sound was coming from him, and that he really ought to stop it. While staying strictly within the terms of Martin’s concession, Michael was taking full advantage of it, and he was nothing if not thorough. And in the meantime it seemed that somehow the rest of Martin had decided to get in on the act and was pressing itself helplessly against Michael. It wasn’t even as though Martin were attracted to the man – not _really_ , not in most of the ways that ought to count for something. But it had been so long since he had been this close to, well, anyone, and it was wonderful to be kissed and touched and unequivocally desired. He wasn’t sure he’d ever really understood what that felt like before. By the time Michael let him go, he was flushed and panting.

Michael, on the other hand, looked no more than slightly rumpled. He smiled at Martin and reached out to caress the side of his face, letting his hand continue to trail slowly down the front of Martin’s uniform to rest lightly on his chest. Martin didn’t have the strength to stop him.  



	2. Chapter 2

“So, then, perhaps…” Michael said, moving to separate a slightly larger sheaf of notes from the bundle on the table and add them to those already residing in Martin’s jacket pocket, “… you could be persuaded to remove that uniform for me.”

In spite of his confusion Martin automatically tensed, already mentally preparing to return the money and go. He felt he was in too deep already. This wasn’t why he had come, after all. Somehow things had strayed very far from the occasional client discussions about destination weather and arrival times; that is, when Carolyn graciously allowed him to get a word in. Occasionally they might even get as far as flight paths. He was about to stammer some kind of refusal when an unexpected voice spoke up.

_ Oh, come on Martin. Give the man a show, and take his money. _

_ Douglas, get out of my head. Where the hell were you before, anyway? _

_ How should I know? Wherever you’d left me, I suppose. _

Fine, so it was only his extremely vocal subconscious, and just as well, because the _real_ Douglas would never have let him live this down. All the same, even his imaginary presence was strangely reassuring.

_ You really think I should  _ strip _for him just because he has money?_

_ When you take off your shirt for some of those moving jobs you’re halfway there already, aren’t you? And you don’t get paid nearly as much. _

_ That’s different! _

“To whom are you speaking?” Michael was watching him again, one eyebrow raised.

“Um… to you?” Martin said.

“The truly wonderful thing about you, Martin, is that you have no ability whatsoever to conceal your innermost thoughts.”

“Oh. Douglas, then.”

“Your erstwhile first officer again? And is he for or against my proposal?”

“For. I think.”

“Excellent. Carry on, then.”

_ It won’t do you any harm if you just let him  _ look _at your glorious physique; it’s not like you were doing anything much with it anyway._

_ Shut up, Douglas. _

_ Have another drink, Martin. _

At this point, that seemed like the best idea yet. Martin picked up his glass, studied the remains of his drink, then defiantly downed it in a single swallow. Astonishingly, it burned a smooth trail down his throat, and then began to disperse cheerfully through his bloodstream. He set the glass back on the table, beginning to feel immeasurably better.

“No touching,” he said firmly.

Michael held up both hands in surrender. “I shall stay right over here.”

He went back to his chair, sat down, and folded his arms.

Right, then. Martin had to admit Douglas did have a reasonable point; he should treat it as… just another kind of job. He was a little self-conscious about how thin he was, but he also knew all the manual labour he’d done had given him a certain wiry strength and definition. It was one of the few areas in which he was secretly rather pleased with himself. After a moment’s thought, he sat back down in the chair to remove his shoes and socks first. Hardly the most riveting sight in the world, but he was aware that he still had Michael’s full attention.

When he was done, he stood, and the wooden floorboards were pleasantly rough against his bare feet. Squaring his shoulders a little, he unbuttoned his uniform jacket and slipped it off. He took care to refasten the top button to help hold its shape, draping it carefully over the back of his chair before moving on. Then his tie, which went over the uniform, and finally his shirt, folded, over that. By this time he could feel the heat in his face, and knew that he had gone the kind of bright red totally unrelated to the fire’s warmth. He couldn’t quite bring himself to look directly at Michael, but kept his gaze focused on the fireplace, just because it was there.

“That’s very nice, Martin,” Michael said encouragingly. Perhaps it should have made him feel even more self-conscious, but instead he just felt… appreciated. Something he was most unaccustomed to. His best efforts at piloting usually resulted in Carolyn calling him a berk and not paying him enough, while in his moving business he counted himself lucky if any of his clientele managed to come up with both the cash _and_ a grunt of appreciation when he was done. So while he wasn’t exactly proud of doing this, at least he didn’t seem to be making a complete idiot of himself either.

He did risk a glance over at Michael now, who was watching him expectantly. Might as well get it over with. He unbuckled his belt, not bothering to remove it from his trousers, and then removed both as a single unit, folding them and placing them on the seat of his chair. Probably he should have given better thought to the slightly grey and tatty condition of his briefs before this point, but it was too late now, and it was all the more incentive to get them off quickly. He managed to accomplish this in an awkward kind of crouch, his main ambition that of not falling over. At least in that he was successful.

_ Ta-da! _ Douglas added unhelpfully, when he was done. Martin only just managed to refrain from rolling his eyes.

“Now do let me see.”

Slowly Martin turned back towards the chair, hands down by his sides. Every muscle tensed as he desperately resisted the urge to cover himself with something, anything, but Michael’s expression suggested he had nothing to be ashamed of. It was an odd expression, not so much leering as… wistful. In response to the commanding tilt of Michael’s chin, Martin obediently took a few steps closer to his chair.

“Yes. You really are lovely.”

Martin stood quietly then and let Michael examine him, turning around obediently for a time at Michael’s request, and back to face him again. By now Martin’s first furious blush had subsided, and he felt only a great sense of calm, the same peace he felt sometimes when the auto-pilot was on and the flight deck was quiet. Just the blue of the sky and the occasional passing cloud visible through the curved plexiglass windows, with the steady hum of engines in the background. He smiled.

“What are you thinking about now, Martin?”

“Oh! Um… about flying. Sorry. Just… how peaceful it is, sometimes.”

“It’s the thing that makes you happiest in the world.”

It wasn’t really a question. Martin nodded anyway.

_ Well, that was very moving, _ Douglas said. _Are we done now?_

Annoying or not, he did have a point. “Are you…? I mean, can I get dressed now?”

Michael sighed. He was leaning back in the chair now, his fingers steepled together, his face unreadable. Or at least it was typeset in a very different font from the ones Martin was used to.

“You’ve been so _very_ good…” Michael began.

_ And you’ve been so  _ very _rich,_ Douglas added, clearly miffed at having been temporarily excluded.

“…that I was hoping you could perhaps humour me with one more thing. One _last_ thing,” he stressed.

_ Here it comes. Or is that you? _

_ Shhh, I can’t deal with both of you talking at once! _

“You’ve brought me a great deal of pleasure tonight, Martin,” Michael continued. “And now I would dearly love to see you…” he gestured briefly, and vaguely, in Martin’s direction. “…pleasure yourself.”

Martin gulped. “Oh, I don’t think…”

“But why not?” Michael demanded. It was the most emotion he’d shown all evening. “I can understand your reluctance at… other things, perhaps, but _that_ you must have at least done before.”

“Well, yes, of course, but…”

_ Douglas! _

_ So  _ now _you want my advice?_

“It would mean so much to me. And there would be the rest of the money, of course.” Michael glanced briefly towards the reduced bundle of notes on the table. “If that makes a difference to you.”

“Oh. I…”

“Martin…” Michael stretched out an imploring hand, and against his better judgement Martin moved just close enough to take hold of it. Michael squeezed his hand once before letting him go. “Please?”

_ Oh, he’s  _ good _, isn’t he?_ Douglas said. _He’ll be calling you ‘sir’ next._

_ Stop that! What do I do? _

“And what does Douglas have to say?”

“Nothing! He… um… I’m thinking.”

_ I rather think this one’s up to you, Martin. _

_ But you got me into this in the first place! _

_ Really? Did  _ I _tell you to kiss him in the first place? By the time you bothered asking_ me _anything, I just thought that since you clearly_ liked _him…_

_ That’s not fair! I don’t  _ like _him. I mean, he’s all right for someone as different from me as humanly possible. He’s fine, I suppose. For someone who probably doesn’t know a thing about airplanes. But I don’t like him… the way I like you, for example._

_ Really? And how  _ is _that, exactly?_

_ Oh. _

Now that the question had arisen, Martin tried his hardest to suppress it again. He knew that as interesting as the answer might be, this was entirely the wrong time to be contemplating how he might or might not actually feel about Douglas. In fact, there was virtually no time he could imagine that could be any more wrong, unless it involved concurrently plummeting out of the sky in flames. How entirely typical of his life that it should occur to him at this exact moment.

“Martin?”

_ Douglas? _

_ Tell you what - I’ll talk you through it, if you like. See how you really feel about the idea. _

“Oh… that might work. All right, yes. Okay then.”

He looked up to see Michael wearing a decidedly puzzled look, and that succeeded at least somewhat in bringing him back to earth. Oh, god, was he really going to do this? He didn’t really think Michael would stop him if he decided to call the whole thing off and leave. It was just that – if he were honest – maybe he had enjoyed being looked at like that. Just a very little bit. And Michael had really been very kind to him, even if he were the sort of person you couldn’t ordinarily trust as far as you could throw. And of course there was still the money, although its allure was somewhat less than before, impressive an amount as it was. But mostly, it was the idea of imagining Douglas there, beside him.

“Are you actually in a relationship? I had no idea,” Michael said, in a tone giving the distinct impression that some terrible oversight had been made, for which someone would inevitably suffer.

“No,” Martin said quietly. There was no need to explain further.

“I see,” Michael said, his voice gentler now.

Which really left Martin only the question of how best to begin. If he’d been at home, he would probably be stretched out on top of the bedclothes, sometimes with a magazine, sometimes just gazing out of the window at the stars outside. A bottle of lotion, a box of tissues, and himself; all the essentials for his own pedestrian version of paradise. Or sometimes in the shower, with soap in his hair and the weak morning light filtering in from the tiny frosted window. His current surroundings, while beautiful, were not exactly the most conducive to tossing off.

He turned to face slightly away from Michael, the uncertainty rising in him again. For all his earlier proclamations, Douglas too seemed to have deserted him for the moment, and he felt very alone. There was a mirror on the far wall, reflecting the edges of the fire’s glow, and when Martin glanced into it, his reflection looked pale and strained. He bit his lip, and turned back towards Michael. Maybe he couldn’t do this after all.

Michael uncrossed his legs and got up from the chair, moving slowly and cautiously towards Martin as though approaching a wild thing. He laid his hands on Martin’s shoulders and gently turned him back towards the fire. Martin shivered.

“Shhh,” Michael said, although Martin hadn’t said a thing. “You need to relax. That’s all.”

His fingers began to stroke the curve of Martin’s shoulders in long sweeping movements, over and over. The initial contact only made Martin tense further, but gradually the tumult in his mind quieted, and he began to relax into Michael’s hands, leaning back into them. As though sensing his surrender, the quality of Michael’s movements changed; now his fingers pushed deeper into the muscles, working through them methodically, soothing the tension away. It felt wonderful, and despite himself, Martin sighed happily. He was in that state of almost – _almost_ – enjoying himself again. It lingered even as Michael tilted his head forward slightly and kissed Martin’s cheek.

“Better?”

Martin nodded.

“Wait,” Michael said, and abruptly he turned and left the room. Martin looked after him, frowning, but within a minute Michael had returned with a small tinted bottle. He came up behind Martin again, catching hold of Martin’s hand, and proceeded to trickle a few drops of pale liquid first into Martin’s palm, then into his own. Then Michael carefully re-stoppered the bottle and placed it in front of them on the mantelpiece. He warmed the liquid between his hands, indicating that Martin should do likewise.

Martin rubbed his hands together, inhaling deeply as he did so. It was clearly something oil-based, and beautifully scented; not floral, but something earthy and deep. Then Michael’s hands came to rest on Martin’s shoulders, massaging them again, the liquid cool and calming on his bare skin.

_ Douglas? I could really… use some help here. _

_ I think you should begin with the obvious, don’t you? _

Martin shut his eyes then, and let his hands slide as unobtrusively as possible down his belly, as though he needed to ensure plausible deniability right up until the moment he actually touched himself. Even when his right hand finally reached his cock, he stopped and just held it there for a long moment. He felt Michael’s hands still on his shoulders, heard the hitch in his breathing that mirrored Martin’s own.

_ Come on, Martin, we haven’t got all day. What do you need me to do? Would you like me to kiss you? _

“Yes…” Martin whispered, his lips barely parting with the word.

_ All right, then. You may want to brace yourself. _

The thought sent the first small pulse of desire to Martin’s cock, and he rode it, beginning to stroke himself in small, unhurried movements. He felt Michael’s lips on the side of his neck, and he made them Douglas’s, arching into their softness. The perfume of the oil mingled with the scent of Michael’s aftershave and his own musk as he stroked himself into full hardness.

Douglas had finally made good on his word and was with him now, strong arms wrapped around his chest, urging Martin on with his voice, telling him how lovely he was, how desirable, how beautiful. Martin threw his head back and let the stream of words wash over him, working his hand on his cock in time with their deep, seductive rhythm. He was also dimly aware that from behind him Michael was also murmuring to him, a soft tenor counterpoint to Douglas’s baritone. The words entangled and intertwined, fading in and out of his consciousness as he began to moan in earnest, adding his own breathless harmony.

His world had narrowed now; there was the heat of the fire in front of him, the press of a warm body behind. But blazing hottest of all was the unbearable coiled tension in the pit of his stomach, the ache in his cock as he quickened his movements. Now he was desperately thrusting into his fist, while his return movements saw him rubbing against the clothed hardness pressed against the cleft of his buttocks, no longer knowing who it was, not caring. The shame had burned away and there was only pure need and desire.

“Oh, god,” he said, quietly, reverently. “Please, I… oh, god…”

In response to his plea, a hand wrapped for just a moment over his own, added its own firm, insistent pressure and it was finally enough. Martin’s entire body arched with the effort of suppressing the scream that threatened to burst from him – a habit he had learned long ago. Instead only small breathy whimpers emerged from his throat as his free hand reached backwards trying to clutch hold of anything – an arm, a waist, a fold of clothing – to steady himself. But now gentle hands were turning him around, bringing him to rest against a shoulder, holding him close. He was aware that he was messy and sticky, and really ought not to make contact with anything, but the arms brooked no resistance.

Then he was pulled gently forward and down into a chair, so he was now seated on someone’s lap. Not Douglas, now; Michael. He shivered a little at the loss of the fire’s heat, and of his own, but the arms held him a little tighter to compensate. Michael was nuzzling into his hair now, petting him, telling him how very well he’d done, while Martin huddled into his chest, a small but growing sense of humiliation warring with simple animal satisfaction. He wasn’t really sure of anything any more; he didn’t understand why he’d just done what he’d done, or worse, why he’d enjoyed it. But that would have to wait until later – for the time being he let himself lie there and let Michael fuss over him while his heart rate and breathing slowly returned to normal.

He might have dozed; later, his memory of things after that point grew fuzzy and dream-like. But he remembered Michael leaving the room, returning some unspecified time later wearing a change of clothes and bearing a damp washcloth. Then Martin somehow found himself fully dressed again - he must have managed out of sheer accustomed habit; and he remembered Michael walking over to give him another kiss, slipping the rest of the bundle of notes unobtrusively into his jacket pocket as he did so. Left to his own devices, Martin would most likely have forgotten. The last thing he still needed was his captain’s hat; Michael plucked it from the table and put it on for him, smiling, adjusting it carefully with both hands until it was sitting just so. Then Martin was ready to go. But Michael had one more thing for him; a plain business card on best-quality cream stock, printed with nothing but a single mobile telephone number. He tucked it into Martin’s pocket alongside the money.

“If you should ever need… anything,” he’d said softly, and wished Martin a good night.

It was not until the car ride back to the hotel that Martin realised two things. Firstly, that he was absolutely starving; and secondly, that he would just have to face the others back at the hotel head-on, because Michael had apparently neglected to return his phone.

 

 

***

 

 

The phone call caught Carolyn half-dressed in the hotel bathroom, with a face covered in night moisturiser.

“Mum! Phone! It’s Martin,” Arthur called from the room. She’d left him perched on the end of his bed, happily engrossed in the television. The Discovery Channel had been enlightening him on the wonders of wildebeest. Or yaks. Something shaggy with horns, anyway.

She swooped out of the bathroom to see Arthur waving her flashing mobile in the air like a cigarette lighter at a rock concert while watching an onscreen antelope meet its untimely end. She had noticed over time that regardless of the stated focus of any given nature program, there seemed an unwritten law that there should always be antelopes. Perhaps even underwater. Carolyn plucked the phone from Arthur’s hand and stabbed at the answer button.

“Where on earth have you been?” she demanded. About half an hour ago she’d actually passed the point of furious anger and segued into mild concern, but there was no point in letting Martin know that. Besides, “Hello” was such an inefficient way of beginning a conversation. “You do realise that these devices only work if they’re a) switched on and b) you answer them. Not via _telepathy_.”

The reply brought her tirade to an abrupt halt. “And who are you? Has… something happened?”

Ten minutes later, she set the phone back on the bedside table, a frown destroying any good the moisturiser might have done. More than anything else in the world, she hated being told what to do by pompous idiots with too much money and a desire to meddle in other people’s businesses. However, if it turned out that a small portion of MJN’s outstanding debts really _had_ been mysteriously settled, it didn’t seem entirely unreasonable that she could see her way to increasing Martin’s pay. Just a very little bit, mind you. Although why it should be any concern of Buckingham’s entirely eluded her. _Especially_ since the flight had apparently been cancelled and they would now be returning to Fitton completely untroubled by his august presence. It was bewildering.

“So, where is he then?” Arthur piped up, startling her. “You didn’t tell him about the neck wringing, did you? Because we do need him back for tomorrow.”

“Arthur, have you never encountered the concept of eavesdropping?”

“Nah, it’s rude, isn’t it? Besides, I was watching the flamingos! They’re so… pink!”

“As indeed they should be. Dearest, that wasn’t Martin.”

“Of course it was. It was on the screen!”

Carolyn looked upwards in supplication, but her gaze met only the blinking red eye of the smoke detector. “It – was – the – client – Mr. – Buckingham - using – Martin’s – phone.”

“Oh? Why would he do that? Doesn’t he have his own?”

“Actually, I don’t know why,” Carolyn admitted.

“Nah, it had to be Martin. I got a text too before just now, while you were in the bathroom. From him.”

“Really, Arthur? How do you know it was Martin? What did he say?”

“Oh, not much really.” Arthur grabbed his own phone – it was a minor miracle that he’d actually learned how to use it – thumbed a few buttons and showed Carolyn the screen.

“That is… the text you are referring to,” Carolyn said, just for the sake of absolute clarity. Now that she thought of it, it was a _major_ miracle Arthur had survived to this age without her strangling him. “The one that _had_ to be from Martin?”

“’Course it is, it’s a smiley face, isn’t it? See, it says it’s from Martin right there, and he does smile a lot when he’s not being shouty about something. Or maybe he just sent it to me because I smile a lot, too. I’m not sure. But it was nice of him, wasn’t it?”

“ _Arthur!”_

__

_  
_

 

_ *** _

__

_  
_

 

Douglas, too, was propped up in bed being more-or-less entertained by the television, but his choice of program tended more towards explosions, fast cars, scantily-clad women, and stilted dialogue. The BBC World News was so very reliable that way. 

Occasionally he cast a look over at the empty bed beside his, slightly more concerned than he cared to admit. It was still fairly early in the evening by anyone else’s terms, but Martin always made such a fuss about getting adequate rest before an early flight. By all rights Martin should be asleep by now, or at the very least nagging Douglas to turn off the damn TV and go read in the bathroom. And it was even less like him to be uncontactable, at least while on the job. If he didn’t show up soon, Douglas felt he would be forced to actually escalate to ‘worried’.

When he finally heard his ringtone and saw Martin’s name flashing across the screen of his phone, he felt so much better that he let it go three whole bars before answering. Just to show how concerned he wasn’t.

“Hello Martin,” he said cheerfully. “Enjoying the delights of London? And I really wouldn’t worry too much about the whole ‘scalping’ business, Carolyn _does_ tend to be overly dramatic when she can’t get hold of one of her pilots. Oh.”

Five minutes later, he was left in a state that Carolyn would have had some sympathy with. Yes, he _did_ have a few offshore bank accounts that his ex-wives’ lawyers had never found out about, but surely that was no concern of anyone else but said ex-wives and their lawyers. And if one were, hypothetically, to use such knowledge to gain leverage over a poor, helpless pilot, why would one waste it on a few rather overly personal questions and an injunction to be kind to Martin? He was never anything _but_ kind to Martin. Well, most of the time. Almost always. He had the distinct feeling he was missing something important, but he trusted it would be all be explained to his satisfaction when Martin finally returned. At least he’d confirmed that Martin _would_ be returning, and soon.

Not two minutes later, there came the sounds of several unsuccessful swipes of a keycard, followed by a tap at the door. “Douglas?”

_ Kind. _ What in heavens did that mean, anyway? Douglas sighed. He supposed at the very least it meant he should probably get up and open the door.

 

 

***

 

 

Mycroft sat at the long table with the switched-off phone in front of him, looking thoughtful. Silly to be wasting so much time on one person with empires at stake. Yet he had done so all the same, and not for the first time, either. Well might Sherlock scoff at sentiment, but Mycroft had seen enough of his unnatural attachment to John to know how hollow his words really were. In the long run, they were all vulnerable, because what was a life without some kind of human connection?

The encounter with Martin had left Mycroft strangely nostalgic for a Sherlock who had never been. Even in his teens, Sherlock had never been so sweetly innocent; his seduction of Mycroft had been more like a game of chess, where every concession had been made only either out of necessity, or for the sake of future advantage. It had driven Mycroft crazy, and continued to do so. Despite the recent indisputable threats to Sherlock’s life and reputation, Mycroft could not help but view his current absence as being just another underhanded move in their ongoing fraternal battle.

Mycroft had originally toyed with some vague notions of using Martin as a decoy, a model to test the waters for Sherlock’s eventual return. To dress him up and return him to Sherlock’s accustomed haunts to see whether any of Moriarty’s associates might retain some remnant of loyalty after their leader’s hushed-up demise. Of course, the safety of said decoy could not be guaranteed, but that was something Mycroft had never had any intention of disclosing. However, since actually meeting with Martin, he had found himself unwilling to go any further with the idea. Sentiment again. One day it would be the ruin of him. Perhaps Sherlock, too.

The last time Mycroft had heard from him, Sherlock was holed up somewhere in Florence, no doubt already annoying the neighbours. By now his errant brother owed him a great deal, in both effort and resources, and when Sherlock finally returned to London Mycroft intended to make him repay every bit of it. On his knees; on his back; in any and every way that Mycroft demanded. Meanwhile, Mycroft would just have to make do as best he could.  
  
He got up from the table then, scooping the mobile into his hand. Someone would take it to the hotel early tomorrow morning and return it to its owner. Despite himself, Mycroft hadn’t been able to resist examining it in detail, particularly the text messages Martin had found worth saving. Birthday greetings from his mother; a birth announcement from his brother-in-law; a message from Douglas some months ago that read simply: _Well done_. Mycroft couldn’t help wondering what that last had been for, even as he mocked himself for his own curiosity.  
  
The one saving grace was that sentiment cut both ways; Mycroft knew that if in future he should need to sacrifice Martin after all, what had happened between them would make gaining Martin’s trust and compliance that much easier, even if it made his own situation correspondingly more difficult. He did hope it wouldn’t come to that, but family must always come first. In the end he wished Martin well, knowing it would probably be best for both of them if Mycroft never saw him again.


End file.
